


Nothing To Write Home About

by proximally



Category: Danny Phantom, Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Doctor Who, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Proxima - Stephen Baxter
Genre: Angst, Gen, POV Second Person, a human mind can hold only so many memories, space nomad danny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 17:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4068034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proximally/pseuds/proximally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You died, so you decided to become an astronaut.</p>
<p>(NB: No familiarity necessary with any of the tagged fandoms save Danny Phantom, though it may enhance your experience!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing To Write Home About

**Author's Note:**

> Written January 2015.

_ It seems the day that your house burned to the ground _

_Was the day that you'd always planned to leave anyway_

-x-

I.

Strange, to think you’d never set foot on terrestrial soil again. Unlikely to ever see another human face, save your own. It hurts, a little, but you imagine what you might have done had you stayed and the pain evaporates. And space, eh? The final frontier! You’ve dreamt of this moment since nearly the day you were born, and though you’re leaving everything and everyone behind you’re so much more excited than sad.

You’ve seen the Earth from space before - in person, once, and the sight took your breath away. You don’t have any breath to take these days, but that shining blue pearl, your home for just shy of twenty years, will never leave you. The glint of sunlight off those vast oceans, the twinkling golden lights in the shadow of the Earth, every one a different life, a different story to tell. You spent a day in its orbit, just watching; you’ve got an eternity to explore the universe, and who knows when you’ll see clouds like these again?

You pull yourself away, somehow, and head for Mars. You think you might say hello to Curiosity.

II.

Proxima Centauri is the nearest star to your own; it’s classified as a red dwarf, but in your eyes it’s orange. Astronomers don’t always name things literally.

It’s taken you more than four years to get here; pretty good going, if you do say so yourself. You were always a fast flier, but this jetpack Axion made for you is a dream come true - you’ve no idea how it works, but they said it’s powered by your own ectoplasmic energy and should, theoretically, last as long as you do.

(Sometimes you can’t help but wonder - isn’t lightspeed travel supposed to be impossible? or, at the very least, not possible with current technology? And yet, this _is_ the nearest star, and it _has_ only been four years or so. You try not to question it; the universe might notice your disobedience to its laws and decide to punish you for it.)

(The thought never crosses your mind that, perhaps, the universe has already taken notice, and taken steps.)

There are planets orbiting this star; none so beautiful as those you have left, but the third from the light piques your interest; it’s tidally locked, one hemisphere cast perpetually in shadow, but though its substellar point is a desert for hundreds of miles and the antistellar is glacial, the the land is green with life. You hadn’t for a moment believed that you’d find living organisms so soon - there’s no doubt in your mind that you’d find aliens someday, but in the first solar system you visited? Perhaps the parameters for life are wider than once thought.

The planet is more than you could ever have hoped for; you had always been more interested in alien skies, but the alien life is what fascinates you now. Because they _are_ alive, these strange wicker creatures, they can’t _not_ be, the spinning architects of the lakeshore and the great pterosaur-like kites fluttering in the forests. It’s nothing like Earth; even the plants are a different green. Duller, darker. You suppose it must be due to the star - Proxima Centauri is not nearly so bright as Sol, and didn’t you learn, years ago, about how dark colours absorb more light?

It’s captivating, it truly is, it’s like a thought experiment come true. For the first time, you regret that you will never see home again; to be able to report your observations to the astronomers, the chemists, the biologists!

You realise, quite suddenly, how very little you know, about how you are and why you are and why everything else is. You shiver a little.

III.

You never intended to visit the surface of this planet - you’re heading over _there_ , to that gorgeous nebula you spotted a few lightyears back that you really want to see up close. It’s a desert world, this one, and at first glance it seemed completely barren; now that you’re crashing headfirst through its atmosphere, you’re noticing scrubby patches of greenery and, most curiously, what could well pass for a road. Not brick or tarmac or anything so sophisticated. Just a very well-worn path through the sand dunes and rock.

You’re intrigued, for all of the fifteen seconds it takes for you to hit the ground. It hurts.

You awake to a face staring down at you. It’s a face covered in fine, pale fur, like that of your own arms but longer. Two intelligent eyes peer out at you from behind eyelashes Paulina would have died for, and fluffy ears the length of your forearms peek out through slits cut in the creature’s hood. You wonder briefly if you’ve woken up in an anime, but no - this face could never pass for human.

You realise all of a sudden that the alien - but aren’t _you_ the alien here? - is trying to communicate. At least, it’s making noises while looking at you, so you assume that’s what’s happening. You listen as best you can and, slowly, what seemed at first to be random grunts and growls gain a similar sort of rhythm to any of the terrestrial languages you’ve heard.

This is an alien, a sentient extraterrestrial being that is doing its level best to talk to you. It doesn’t even seem frightened, despite the fact you’re still lying in the sandy crater you made when you crash landed (although maybe this has more to do with alien body language than anything else).

You tap your chest, and try to say, “Danny.” but you haven’t used your voice in so long that all you can manage is a horrible, chest-destroying cough. You ignore the alien’s alarm for now, focusing on not literally coughing up a lung until you realise that, oh wait, you don’t have any to cough up. Recovered, you automatically apologise, and the alien squeaks in what might be delight - perhaps it’s relieved you’re not dying. Which is technically true.

You try again. “Danny,” you say in your croaky voice, “Danny.” You tap your chest, and wonder if they even _have_ names. The alien mimics you, placing a six-fingered hand on its midsection and saying something that sounds a little like “Ria.” You’re not sure whether that’s the alien’s name, its species’ name, or their word for ‘cough’, but it’ll do for now.

Ria stands, and you’re dumbfounded by - not _its_ , that sounds rude now that the alien has a name - their height. They’re a full four heads taller than you, and though they’ve been friendly so far it’s still pretty intimidating. They start scaling the crater’s incline, wide shoeless feet acting like snowshoes, and when they realise you’re not following they beckon you with one hand. As you hurry to catch up you wonder if that might be a literally universal gesture, and you take no notice of the splinters of white plastic and metal that litter your landing site.

IV.

The grass beneath your hand is red, here. That's not nearly so strange as one might have believed - you've stepped foot on many red-carpeted worlds. It's the trees, really, that interest you - silver leaves don't make much sense to your admittedly limited knowledge of plant biology, but the way they shimmer in the breeze is beautiful. They pick up the twin stars' light and reflect the grass, and it's as if the forest were in flames.

You've been sitting here for hours, just watching the vegetation and the golden clouds. The sky above you is a beautiful shade of orange that makes you think of blue eyes and a kindly smile, but you're not sure why.

There's a vast dome off in the distance, glinting in the sunslight, but you haven't quite mustered the courage to investigate it yet - it's clear by the massive central tower that this is a very technologically advanced species, and that makes you a little wary. The last spaceflight-capable species you came across would have killed you had you not been dead already; death rays don't really work on ghosts, it seems.

You've spotted some of the natives already, wandering around a town or village not far from here. They look like you, but you're reasonably certain that this isn't your homeworld. You're pretty sure the planet you came from had green grass and a blue sky, but you can't quite imagine the exact shade anymore.

Lost in thought, you don't notice the alien creep up behind you until they exclaim in surprise. You spin around, summoning ectoplasmic energy to your hands as you do so - you're not taking any chances, this time. Death rays might not kill you, but they sting like hell.

The man - or so you assume; this species is so similar to your own that you'd be surprised if he isn't male - holds his hands palm up and makes calming gestures at you. "Friend," he says, and it's the first time you've understood someone in... how long? You lost count so long ago, but surely it's been centuries, millennia. In your disbelief, your ectoplasm withdraws and you stare open-mouthed at the alien.

"Friend," he repeats, in a happier tone now. "My name is Theta. What’s yours?"

After a moment, you pick your jaw up off the floor and try to answer, but no sound leaves your mouth. How long since you last spoke? How long since your voice vanished? There's no sound in space, but shouldn't you have noticed somehow?

"Can you speak?" he asks, concerned. Yes. No. You shrug dejectedly. “Or write, maybe?” That sounds doable. You summon the green energy that throbs through your veins (do you have veins anymore?) and with one finger you shakily trace an I, an A, and an M in the air before you have to stop and think.

Your name. What is your name?

V.

You’re not sure how you got here. Or more accurately, you haven’t the faintest of clues. Maybe that should worry you more, but the sheer enormity of this place is enough to distract you from thoughts like those. Shelves rise above you like skyscrapers, arranged in rows that seem to go on forever. The furthest point you can see is tinged with a strange greenish-purple, but perhaps it’s just a trick of the light.

Books line the shelves. Some are bound in a way that something in you defines as the correct manner, cardboard covers with elaborate illustrations full of paper. Others are less conventional, held together by stone or wood or skin or, once, what looked like cobwebs. You swear some of them move as you pass.

The further you walk, the stranger your surroundings appear. It’s so gradual you don’t notice it at first, and certainly there’s no real physical change - but despite remaining as equidistant as ever, the bookshelves are getting denser with every step. The books here, they’re different too; more and more of them are chained to the shelves, and you absolutely, definitely, swear-on-your-afterlife, saw that one move on its own. Energy crackles between their pages, you can _feel_ it building up and flowing away through the metal strips nailed to the sides of the bookcases.

Struck by a sudden curiosity, you pick a row at random and observe its inhabitants. A title catches your eye; _Existential Archeology & Speculative Zoology: A History_. You don’t know what that means, but it sounds entertaining.

Your fingers are millimeters from the cover when you’re suddenly hoisted into the air by an unreasonably long and hairy arm.

You look up into what should be called a face if only out of politeness; in all honesty it looks rather more like a couple of handbags fused together and dumped on top of a hairy red beanbag. “Ook,” it says. You don’t speak leather wallet, so you just shrug and smile sheepishly. If you knew how to get out of here, you’d probably be gone already.

The beanbag creature rolls its eyes and leads you through the bookcases to a small clearing containing a comfy-looking armchair and a comically small coffee table that surely could not be of real use to anyone. “Ook,” it says again, now gesturing at the chair. You sit. “ _Eek._ ” You’re pretty sure you understood that one, or at least the emphasis: _Stay._ It disappears into the forest of shelves.

You wait. And wait some more. You lose yourself in tracing the squiggly patterns on the armrest, and it takes a leathery hand landing on your shoulder to jolt you back into reality. “Ook,” it says, and you realise that with its other hand, it proffers a book.

It’s bound in black and white and, at more than an inch thick, it’s no light reading. There doesn’t seem to be a summary, and the cover is bare save a neon green icon that, upon further inspection, turns out to be a little cartoony ghost. The title page is a little more informative; _DANNY PHANTOM AND OTHER NOTABLE GHOSTS OF AMITY PARK._

The names are uncomfortably familiar, and so are the authors’; you don’t know why.

Still, you smile and nod in appreciation of the hairy handbag’s gift, and after making it abundantly clear that the book should not, under _any_ circumstances, leave this place, the Librarian ambles away. You hunker down in your comfy chair, and flip to the first page.

VI.

You arrived early, they complained. You weren’t sure what they meant, or what you were early for, but you decided to stick around and find out. They were nice enough to find you something to sit on - not that you really need it, but you appreciate the thought. It’s been days, you think, and it’s still just you and the staff. Oh, and the grumpy robot who’s apparently been here forever. You waved at it earlier, but the dismal tirade it spouted off rather curbed your desire for conversation.

They’re getting close to finishing the construction work, and while you’re still uncertain as to what the building’s true purpose is, the huge neon sign they’re putting up suggests something like ‘nightclub’. _Milliways_ , it says, and that doesn’t sound much like a bar. More like a diner.

You blink, and another day passes. It’s a special skill you developed, a long time ago, because while both eternity and infinity are at your fingertips, a lot of it is very boring.

“Sir?” asks a waiter. “Your table is ready. If you’d like to follow me…” You never gave any indication of wanting to eat here, but, well, whatever. It’s not like they’ll catch you when you inevitably leave without paying. You glide after him.

Milliways is definitely not a diner, and a meal here would probably cost you enough money to buy a solar system. In your (after)life, you’ve seen a great many wonders and a great many displays of wealth; you’ve seen opulence. But this isn’t opulence, this is _Opulence_ , italicised and with a capital O. You’re led to a small table by a window and after providing you with a menu, the waiter tells you you have up until forty minutes before the end of the universe to make your selection, and leaves. You’re not sure what to make of that.

You end up staring out of the window, mostly. The glamour of the restaurant hurts your eyes after a while, and even after however many centuries it’s been, you do still like to look at the stars.

Guests are beginning to arrive and take their seats and the waiters and waitresses flitter about doting on them. They all ignore your little island of calm, and you become aware of a strange emptiness in your chest. You don’t remember having ever felt quite like this before, and you’re wondering if this is it, if this is the end of you, when a word occurs to you.

_Lonely._

But, you think, you can only be lonely if you’ve known companionship. What have I forgotten?

Around you, Milliways’ many patrons applaud the end of everything.

-x-

_And the vast empire you come through to get here_

_Makes the world look like pennies in my hand._

( _I’ll Never Let Go_ , Snow Patrol)

 


End file.
